


isnt that what they mean when they say lovers

by s0dafucker



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Burnplay, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Knifeplay, M/M, NO GODS NO MASTERS ONLY 2014 FANON LORE, Purple Guy is not William Afton | Dave Miller, The regular kind, Trans Male Character, Vincent (Rebornica) is Purple Guy (Five Nights at Freddy's), bloodplay but with someone elses blood, canon-typical child murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:02:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26793331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0dafucker/pseuds/s0dafucker
Summary: (all i know is one of us was supposed to kill the other)‘we can wipe it down, dipshit,’ vince mutters, and he focuses instead on trying to fit his entire body on scott’s lap in the rolly chair, his hands dripping cherry-red- ‘here,’ he says, presses his thumb to scott’s lower lip, ‘take care of that.’‘don’t get any on my glasses.’‘no promises,’
Relationships: Phone Guy/Purple Guy (Five Nights at Freddy's)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	isnt that what they mean when they say lovers

**Author's Note:**

> take me back to 2014/15 when the lore was non existent and everyone decided it would be cool if the murderer was just a pissy college kid w purple hair

‘if you’re hearing this,’ scott says to the tape recorder, ‘you’ve made it to day two. uh, congrats!’

some kid throws up in the ball pit. scott wins rock-paper-scissors against the sixteen year old who just started, sends her over to deal with it; he gets stuck on register for a good long while, plastering on his best customer service smile to placate crowds of suburban mothers who want their little timmy’s birthday party at a discount, who’ve decided the party rooms aren’t good enough, who look pointedly at the ashtray behind the counter. scott smiles until his cheeks ache.

vincent looks down at the tape whirring. ‘i wonder how long they’ll use those.’

‘until the place closes, probably.’

scott’s trying to be funny but vincent just rubs his jaw and says, ‘you think- after we’re gone? people will keep hearing your voice?’

scott hums. ‘maybe.’ he doesn’t bother asking if vince means _not working here_ or _dead._

the night shift is long and hellish but vincent begged and pleaded and said if scott picked it up just this once he wouldn’t get blood on the carpets again, _really, babe, that was one time._ one time is enough, in scott’s opinion. and why can’t he just burn the brats instead of- 

(‘what if-’ he’s laughing, they’re both a little stoned in the supply closet, shotgunning, doing hamlet and yorick with the spare heads, ‘what if i say something. on the tapes.’ he snickers. ‘about you.’

vincent’s trying to get another bowl lit and he looks up through his bleach-fried hair, grinning to humor him- ‘yeah? like-’

‘i’ll say somebody’s- there’s something in the suits. scare some poor shit working here in ten years.’ 

vince doesn’t laugh. 

‘what?’ he grabs for the bowl but vincent doesn’t pass and his cold stare is doing wonders to kill scott’s buzz- ‘you don’t actually-’)

he switches the ancient monitor to the supply closet, just for kicks. some weird voyeurism, the gorey idea that seeing vince when he’s indulging is heartachingly intimate. something about the muscles in his shoulders, the line of his jaw; his uniform’s too tight from being bought last summer and so he strains the seams when he’s bashing in some little dickweed’s skull. he smiles real tight and grim when he’s doing it and the detail’s lost to the staticy cctv but scott knows it anyway, the hint of sharp teeth, the way his stupid kool-aid dye job is coming loose from its ponytail. he tries not to look at the kid. vince keeps hitting it after it’s gone limp on the ground and scott switches cameras. he doesn’t need to see the rest.

(‘y’know what-’ his breath is hot and stinks like cheap weed next to scott’s cheek- ‘do it. put somethin’ on the tapes.’

scott’s a lightweight- his fucking world’s spinning, his world doesn’t extend past vince’s warm chest against his back and his stubble on his skin, he mumbles, ‘yeah?’ and forgets what he's replying to.

vince giggles, all nasal and far-away, says, ‘yeah,’ with his mouth on scott’s neck.)

the wrench clatters up a storm when vincent tosses it down- ‘not on the fucking desk,’ scott hisses and he feels like a housewife, a nagging girlfriend, and the hysterical urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all rises up in his chest. 

‘we can wipe it down, dipshit,’ vince mutters, and he focuses instead on trying to fit his entire body on scott’s lap in the rolly chair, his hands dripping cherry-red- ‘here,’ he says, presses his thumb to scott’s lower lip, ‘take care of that.’

‘don’t get any on my glasses.’

‘no promises,’ vince whispers winningly, but scott’s already taken two of his bloody fingers into his mouth and so all he can do is glare. it’s nice, if he shuts his brain off and thinks only with the sick part of himself that likes the feeling of vincent’s slick hands, the copper-and-salt taste that’s almost boozey in the way it makes his throat ache. 

vince smears the kid’s blood all over his face kissing him- he can feel it- wet and too-hot for the cramped office in the july heat, for nothing but the piece of shit fan spinning ‘til it shakes on the desk. vince reaches into his hair, narrowly avoids the arms of his glasses, kisses him stupid until something in the kitchen clangs ominously and he pulls back to shut the doors. 

he lifts the hem of scott’s shirt, raises a questioning red-splattered eyebrow-

‘my binder stays on,’ scott says, and vincent grins sharp and terrifying and wonderful and he leans back down to work on leaving a hickey where scott’s uniform will definitely not cover it.

some kid gets his hand stuck in foxy’s mouth- scott wants to punt the thing, really, because he’s something like 10 and that’s too fucking old to try to _touch the fucking robots,_ but he needs this goddamn job and so he smiles patiently and bandages it while vince coaches him on how best to tell his parents he slipped and fell in the parking lot. 

it doesn’t work- pirate’s cove gets _closed indefinitely_ and scott actually feels bad for foxy. it can’t help when its jaw opens or closes or whose limbs are in the way when it happens. he looks over to vincent in profile, his straight nose and the newport held loosely to his lips. 

‘most people don’t last this long,’ he says down the tape recorder. ‘i mean- y’know, they usually move on to other things by now.’ recording the stupid tapes makes him nervous. ‘i’m not implying they died.’ he can’t remember the new hire’s name but in his defense she hadn’t really had a face left when he came in the morning after her second night shift. he had briefed her, too, told her about the faulty power and the faulty animatronics and he ended up bleaching the carpet anyway. he files a missing persons report.

(the employee bathroom smells like grape and artificial sugar when scott walks in to sneak a sip from the stolen minibar gin in his pocket, and vincent looks up from where he’s bent double rinsing his hair in the sink- ‘hey,’ he says, with a little smile, and scott watches the purple drip out of his hair and most definitely leave a stain on the porcelain. he fishes the bottle out of his jacket. 

‘are you on break?’

‘yeah. you?’

‘i’m pissing.’

vince grins. he’s got very nice teeth.

he nods to the bottle. ‘you sharing?’)

a kid throws up in the playplace. scott says he’s too tall to fit in the tunnels. vincent wraps an arm around his waist, catches him on his way to mop the hallways or something- ‘register’s open.’

scott leans to pull away, but vince digs his fingers into his side and he squeaks- ‘i thought you were on register,’ he says, indignant.

‘parents don’t like me.’ vince’s touch is warm and cigarette-scented and irritatingly comforting. ‘you’re more of a family-friendly face.’

he also tends to get _miss_ and _ma’am_ ’d a lot more on register, but vincent bribes him with a pack of smokes and he just lowers his six-months testosterone voice as far as it’ll go. he doesn’t bother mentioning that vince could dye his hair back or take out his earrings if he wants families to trust him that bad.

he takes the bus back to his apartment. he ignores a call from his mom. he considers changing his major. he dreams.

vincent looks like a god, in the golden dim, in the one naked lightbulb swinging wildly from the ceiling- he drips blood from his teeth, his hair, running from his eyes like tears. he’s holding scott’s kitchen knife. he’s holding scott’s hand. there’s dust in the air between their faces and he presses his wet lips to scott’s forehead, draws some approximation of a cross in the red stain. he presses on scott’s eyelids, slips his fingers inside the socket where it’s nauseating and erotic and crooks his fingers until he pops the thing out with a sickening little noise that reminds scott of blowjobs in porn. it doesn’t hurt. he can feel it bleeding. vincent looks down like god and he sets it in his mouth, dripping red, rolls it around on his tongue like that cherry stem trick from highschool, he must be a good kisser because he grins with the iris facing out, scott’s staring into his own eye blue and stark and empty. blood trickles down his cheek.

‘give it back,’ he says, stupidly, and vince’s teeth close on it when he laughs, bright and unexpected, and it bursts like a grape in the black heat of his mouth, the endless gaping maw. his adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.

‘it’s okay,’ he’s saying quietly, he’s kneeling down close, he’s praying, ‘i’ve got you,’ and he’s licking the scarlet tears from scott’s cheek, he’s reaching under his shirt to feel his pulse beat wildly between his collarbones. ‘i’ve got you,’ vince says and he presses his tongue inside him, makes love with the wound, ‘it’s okay,’ and it burns like acid when his spit drips into the blind cavern in scott’s skull. 

(he wakes up drenched in sweat and presses a frantic hand to his left eye, the dizzy sensation of movement through the thin skin. ‘fuck,’ he mutters. it’s still dark out. he fumbles in the nightstand for his cigarettes and pointedly ignores the burn of arousal that’s lingering in his stomach.)

‘where are you from?’ scott asks, folded up in a booth, smoking vince’s cigarettes and leaning on his shoulder. he’s staring at a family, breeders with a son and a baby, standing by the show stage; the couple’s getting the kids to wave to freddy and it stirs something ugly in scott’s chest. something disgusting like nostalgia. 

‘nowhere you’d know.’ he sounds bored.

‘you ever see your parents?’

‘they’re dead.’

scott laughs, for some fucking reason, but vince just kisses him real quick and secret behind his ear and mutters, ‘you think they’d miss that thing?’ with a little tilt of his head towards the breeders’ kid.

scott wishes he could really pry. open his head and pick out the stories of his youth, the things that keep him up at night. he wishes he could sew himself into his skin. ‘probably,’ he says, and vincent sighs. 

(‘i- i wanna live in your skin,’ scott says in a rush, and vincent grins electric, all teeth and eyebrows, looking like he’s in over his head and thrilled about it-

‘yeah, baby?’ 

scott’s pressing a knife to his throat, where’d he get it, there’s blood on it already, whose is it-

scott’s reaching down his cheap khakis, backing him into the wall, reckless and stupid with the knife on his jugular, ‘i want- i could kill you.’

vincent grabs the collar of his shirt, pulls him down, still with that excited-nervous smile, all teeth and gums and heavy-lidded eyes, ‘so do it,’ he says, rough and rasping, ‘do it.’)

someone shakes him and he jolts up- it’s one of the new hires, a kid with fresh eyes that scott’s determined to keep off the night shift-

‘sorry,’ he says, ‘you just- you looked kinda far away.’

‘thanks,’ scott mumbles. 

he really wishes he could say vincent fucked him up, sometimes. he’d love to pin the blame quick and easy and say he’s just _so very in love-_ but the roadkill outside his childhood home begs to differ. climbing over the stick shift of a highschool boyfriend’s car to kiss his mouth when he had a nosebleed. the guidance counselor asking politely if he’s had any thoughts to harm himself or others. 

he would never do it, though- he always decided he’d never do it. and so he glues himself to vincent’s side and licks the blood from his hands and watches over the camera when he makes a sack of bones out of a person. he lies through his teeth every time he remembers to record the damn training tapes.

vincent takes the night shift for the week and calls scott sometime past three on monday night- ‘you ever get the name of that kid who got foxy shut down?’ the faint sound of the door slamming.

‘course not.’

vince hums. ‘figured.’

scott reaches for his glasses, catches his phone between his shoulder and his cheek; ‘you want me to come over?’

he huffs a laugh. ‘nah.’ scott gets his pack out from his nightstand. ‘what’re you wearing?’ vince asks in his best sleazy drawl.

‘i dunno. boxers.’ he lights a cigarette, takes an indulgent drag. ‘you?’

‘i mean, you’ve seen the uniform.’ rustling, like he’s running a hand through his hair or looking for a smoke of his own.

‘yeah.’ he lays back to stare at the ceiling. ‘it’s tight.’

silence. lighter flick. inhale. ‘didn’t know you were looking.’

scott stares at the back of his door. worn _scream_ poster. ‘i’m always looking.’

it would be creepy, to anyone else, but vincent’s breath catches in his throat and he says, quietly, ‘yeah?’

scott exhales. he drops ash on the sheets. ‘anyone ever, like- anyone ever pull a knife on you?’

‘what, like getting mugged?’

scott puts his smoke out on the nightstand and lights another. ‘yeah. or, i dunno, you go to a school with fights?’

he laughs. scott likes his laugh. it’s dumb. ‘uh, i got held up at my last job once. dunno why he thought he could stab me over the counter.’

‘how’d you feel?’

shallow breathing. the static hiss of the monitor. ‘good. a-,’ he swallows, scott can hear it caught in his throat, ‘i felt alive.’

‘you ever-’ god, this is sick- ‘you ever cut yourself?’

‘no.’ fabric rustling, vince’s breath close to the receiver like he’s tucked it in his shoulder. ‘you could. if you wanted.’

‘i know.’ there, faintly- scott hears his zipper go down. ‘i could carve you up like you do to those kids.’ is that his heart, pounding in his ears? ‘cut your heart out.’

‘you could- you could cut my throat,’ the whirr of the desk fan, faint skin-on-skin, a breath sucked past his teeth, ‘you should see it. the way it sprays, a cut like that.’

(kissing vincent’s throat dripping red, dragging his tongue over the scalpel-straight incision- he whimpers, and his breath hisses out into scott’s mouth like cpr, like shotgunning, he’s fever-hot and trying to plead through the blood behind his teeth-)

‘fuck!’ vincent says, too-loud, real-vincent, and scott thinks for a second that he came but there’s a scramble over the phone- the monitor clatters- and then, the tell-tale hum of the power going out that makes scott’s heart sink in his chest.

a very long silence. the doors sliding up. vince’s quick breaths down the line. 

‘what time is it,’ scott says, very softly. the cigarette is trembling between his fingers.

‘four-o-six.’

‘go home.’

vincent’s quiet, and then all very gradually he starts to _laugh._ his stupid snarky laugh that always sounds like it’s caught in his throat like broken glass, his smoker’s lungs wheezing until it fizzles out into a hacking cough- 

‘are you kidding?’ his breath’s barely come back but he’s still smirking, scott can hear it, scott can hear the chair creaking as he leans back, the wheels sliding on the linoleum- ‘go to bed.’ the fucking wheels are still moving, he’s still moving loud enough for scott to hear- ‘i’ll see you at work tomorrow.’

what the _fuck,_ scott starts to say, but the line goes dead and he sits up in a rush and drops his fucking cigarette on his leg. ‘ _shit._ ’

it burns a hole through his sheets, fucking of course, leaves a big black mark on his thigh, stings like a motherfucker-

by the time everything’s taken care of it’s nearly quarter-of and the sun’s rising through the blinds and he decides that even if vincent isn’t dead he still probably won’t feel like answering his fucking phone. 

(scott still feels guilty for sleeping- the thought that anyone could find vincent’s body without him turns his stomach, that as he’s riding the bus to work there could be someone alive that isn’t him who’s seen the inside of vince’s skull.)

vincent shows up in the evening. strolls through the parking lot kicking up dust like a fucking cowboy while scott’s smoking against the wall and scowling out at him. 

‘i wish you really had died.’

‘you don’t mean that,’ vince says. even slouching scott’s got a couple inches on him. 

‘sure i do.’

‘gimme a smoke.’

he reaches over and scott doesn’t know what exactly he thinks except that he takes vince’s wrist and turns it and stares at his veins, like the underbelly of a fish, sickly-white, and stubs out the last of his cigarette next to some old scar. 

'shit,' vince says, oddly quiet, and scott's watching his mouth, scott's dropping the butt on the concrete and watching vince flush red and curse and shake. his arm's trembling and still he isn't trying to pull back. he's staring down at the burn. there are tears in his perfect eyelashes.

scott should say something. he should apologize. he opens his mouth to say god-knows-what but before he can vince grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him down to kiss him. 

fuck. what the fuck. 'you're so fucking hot,' vince mumbles against his mouth and scott can feel him reaching into his pocket to steal a smoke but he doesn't care. 

(scott wants to give him something. maybe not to make up for the burn but to accompany it, something that shines with i’m-glad-you’re-alive in a way that isn’t so barefaced, doesn’t feel so nauseous and vulnerable. the kid follows him into the office pretty easy. it says its parents are divorced. scott’s are too.)

scott locks up. vincent sweeps. it’s vaguely domestic, if you’re sick like that, and when the clock strikes midnight scott whispers sweetly in his ear that he’s got a gift for him.

(he’s _thrilled._ )

‘you see,’ vince says, raising his voice over the kid’s crying, ‘this is what i was talking about.’ he slides the knife once, like a practice golf swing, grinning razor-sharp; the second pass cuts through skin like paper and the blood sprays all over-

‘my fucking shirt, jesus-’

vince is still carving up the kid’s neck like a fucked up turkey, that manic gleam in his eyes that screams _danger_ the same way standing in the middle of the street sets your fucking skin on edge but scott is a stupid deer who’s wandered here and is determined to stay, for some goddamn reason. he’s staring at the spot where the kid’s blood has splattered into the burn on vince’s arm. he hopes it stings.

‘you want a cigarette?’ he asks, after the fact, and vincent lights one and sits real quiet until he finally looks over and says, ‘wow, that’s- i really fucked up your shirt.’

scott exhales. the buzz is helping with his shaking. ‘yeah. fuck you.’

vince very deliberately flicks one of his wet hands all over the front of his shirt and deadpans, ‘oh no. now you gotta take it off.’

‘shut up.’ scott pulls up the monitor and flicks through the cameras while vince in his peripheral actually does shuck off his shirt and sit back down on the desk in just his slightly less blood-stained binder. 

there’s quiet. scott hands the butt of his smoke over to vince to drop in the ashtray. the curtain at pirate’s cove rustles threateningly. 

‘hey.’ scott looks up- ‘what was this about?'

vincent's staring down at the cigarette burn in his forearm, a mostly-perfect circle of dark red; he's touching it, sort of reverent, sort of like poking a bruise.

'i- i'm sorry.'

'that's not what i asked.'

scott stares down at the monitor. 'i wanted to.' he swallows. 'to punish you.' what a fucking thing to say. it sounds dirty, now that it's out in the air like that. he flips cameras to stare into chica's dead eyes. 

vince whistles, low. 'you're one sick son of a bitch.' 

scott bristles, instinctively _-_ but it's one of vincent's rare romantic moments. he reaches out, tilts scott's chin up to look at him and his light eyes, his pink cheeks. 'i liked it,' he murmurs, runs his thumb over scott's lip.

scott holds his wrist. thumb to his pulse. ‘then maybe you’re the sick one.’

vince grins, sharp. he rubs the stubble on scott’s jaw, thumbs his adam’s-apple, his calloused fingers warm and rough.

scott pulls his arm down and drags his tongue indulgently over the burn, hears the wet hiss of vince’s breath sucked in past his teeth. ‘ha- fuck. s-shit.’ he chuckles, low, and scott thinks it’d be nice to leave a hickey on the inside of his arm, over his sickly-blue veins; scott wants him bruised and scarred and messy. 

(they go back to scott's place. they fit uncomfortably into his coffin-sized bed and vincent tilts his head back so scott can bite into his throat and he murmurs, 'i love you,' and scott says he'd like to use his mouth as an ashtray. scott shoves vince down on his back and wraps one hand around his throat and doesn't squeeze. he just holds him still, feels his pulse thumping wildly under his hand. feels his adam's-apple move when he swallows and scott tells him he's a disgusting little pervert. his face turns a shade of scarlet that glows in the dim, his hips bucking up desperately- 'pathetic,' scott murmurs against his mouth, one hand buried in his hair. 'you're such a slut.'

his heart is racing- he's never said this sort of thing before. he doesn't know where it came from. there's a tender bundle of feeling in his chest that sparks like an overexposed nerve and the only thing making it contract in any meaningful way is watching vincent struggle, the desperate furrow of his brows, the restructuring of his handsome face into something more vulnerable. there's a murderer gasping and writhing under scott's grip. he feels sort of drunk on it. scott thinks he’d be happy forever if he could keep vince like this.

'i could turn you in,' he whispers, mouth to vincent's neck, knuckle-deep inside him where he's fever-hot and wet and vice-tight; vince tenses- his pulse stutters under scott's tongue- 'please,' he manages, whisper-ragged, a little hiss of an _s_ -

 _i could turn you in_ but scott’s lying and he knows it, they both do. scott’s an accessory. scott’s irrevocably tied to this- to vincent- and it makes his blood run cold, a horrible play on _no strings attached._ if the police ever get involved- someone ever tries to sue- 

vincent kisses him and scott thinks he might be crying into his mouth and everything goes hot and black and soundless for a long few seconds.)

scott wakes up with the smell of vincent’s skin. his chest rising and falling. the want for a cigarette hits him hard and fast between his ribcage but he fights a few long seconds to keep pressing his face to vincent's warm neck.

he goes fumbling for his glasses and his pack and tugs on a hoodie to sit next to the cracked window and smoke with one hand over the ashtray. he’s gotta make coffee soon.

vince shifts in bed, cheek pressed to the sheets, and scott takes a long drag and studies the way he rests. he’s delicate, in sleep, his jaw loose and his brows gentle and the rasp of new stubble on his face. he’s like a statue or something, his muscled forearms and the soft swell of his chest, all the dangerous bits of him eroded away. like one of those big cats or bears in the zoo, those giant things that could snap your neck with barely any effort sleeping sweetly in a heap on the ground. his hair’s loose and curling around his ear next to the tiny silver hoop he wears and scott thinks if he ever washed his hair he’d clean up very nicely for court. it’s hard to believe that the man in his bed has ever hurt anyone.

(vincent in a neat little suit, ears bare with only the faintest hint of pinprick scars- hair up- that liar’s-gleam in his green-yellow eyes as he smiles with a hint of sharp teeth and softens his face until he looks like the college kid he says he is. until the predator hunches his shoulders and slips into the shadows to kiss scott’s mouth. the man pleads innocent and the monster makes it clear that he is nothing but guilty.)

there’s fresh bruises on vincent’s neck. scott feels his face get hot, even sitting alone- maybe because he’s sitting alone. maybe because he has none of vince’s bravado to answer to, sitting at his bedroom window smoking a cigarette alone. staring. 

'd'you want to borrow my uniform?' 

vincent's pulling on his binder, sitting up in bed, cigarette dangling precariously from his lips; scott's toweling off his hair, fresh out of the shower, tracing the path of vince's shoulders with his eyes. he knows how that skin tastes. 

'nah,' vince mumbles, 'i've got mine from yesterday,' and scott picks up the lighter from the nightstand and reaches down with it, meets vince when he turns his head and flicks it and pretends not to notice the way his mouth tilts up into a soft smile. 'thanks,' he says, exhales, and he looks up with something very naked and sweet in his face. scott’s heart thumps wildly in his chest. he sits.

vincent offers the filter-end to him, pinched between two fingers like a joint, and he lays his head on scott’s bare shoulder. ‘i don’t wanna go in today.’

scott inhales. his throat burns, faintly. vince’s cheek is warm and rough and he smells of ash and cheap cologne and under that like scott’s blankets, like his shampoo, like home. ‘then don’t go in.’ 

scott passes the cigarette back, fumbles with the tangling of their fingers. 

'what if we quit,' vince says, but he's kidding, he isn't asking but he's tilting his head so scott can catch a glimpse of his raised eyebrow, his eye, the harsh lines of his face. _what if._

scott's never pretended to be an expert in criminal psychology but he thinks there's something about _needing to kill_ in there, something in vince's pathology that's going to snap horribly if he isn't working somewhere with nameless children passing through like gazelles. there's something haunted about the place that's got them tethered. tethered to each other, maybe. 

'who's gonna record the training tapes?' scott says and he's joking but he's thinking about the ghost of him in the office, the ghost of him on the cameras and in the tape player and in the ears of the walking corpse picking up the night shift. 

vince chuckles, sort of, a low gravelly kind of sound, and murmurs, 'yeah. got me there.' he passes the cigarette back and scott looks down, keeps his eyes on the browning nicotine stain and the pillar of ash instead of the beautiful horrible creature beside him.

'you can stay home today, though. you can stay with me.' 

**Author's Note:**

> WOO!! this has been marinating in my docs for like 2 months!!!! i did the quarantine thing and reverted back to my middle school interests and i thought i'd do a little smthn for the fandom that got me to start writing. i always had a soft spot for this type of fic and never wrote one bc i had no idea how to make it sound the way i wanted so this is a gift for 12 year old me.  
> i hope no actual 12 year olds read this 
> 
> title/summary from the gun song by car seat headrest!!


End file.
